


Lovers

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Autistic Technomancers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon, Technomantic Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: In the aftermath of the attack on the Source, Roy seeks peace. He's not the only one.





	Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Haaska's Cold when-it-is-be-posted.

It is funny how quietly things change. A break into the Source—and then a quick execution—and the world has turned without most people noticing. Roy wonders what the good general is going to tell the people. Blame it on the Resistance, perhaps? On Technomancers?

He doesn’t care, not now with the charge still coursing through him—his own and that of his kindred. He doesn’t know their names.

He’s so tired—even though his body is overly energised. He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

He goes to the garden on the third level of the Source, his feet carrying him on instinct.

He used to come here often.

The garden is surprisingly small, compared to his memories, and he even stops on the threshold, unsure whether he’s come the right way. But aside from the changed scale, it is the same, and he breathes in the sweet air and water and gentle colours, and breathes out calm.

It is the same: flagstone paths winding between flower and grass beds and beautiful rocks, down to a small pond in the centre. The pond is framed by The Lovers—three trees: plum, cherry and apple. They never bloom at the same time: their cycles are different, covering for each other. Always together.

‘So this is what you’ve traded for the dust and slums?’

The apple tree is in bloom, veiling the garden in white gauze.

He goes closer to the dark red figure slumped on a boulder by the pond. His feet scrape against flagstones. ‘Yes.’

It is only one of the gardens in the Source, but the oldest.

‘What’s it called? Does it have a name?’

He smiles. ‘The Lovers' Garden. The three trees are The Lovers. Each blooms in its own time.’

‘So they never… what, never meet in bloom? That’s sad.’

‘Why? When one has exhausted itself completely and another is burdened with fruit, the third one is in bloom. They match. I think it’s good. They are planted over the graves of the first trine.’ He pauses, then says, surprising himself, ‘The Lovers are going to die.’

Tenacity’s feet rustle over the pebbles that line the pond. ‘How so?’

‘They need Technomancers tending for them. It’s a sort of symbiotic relationship. They are genetically modified, ancient.’

‘Developed just as a timing experiment?’

‘For their beauty.’

‘Isn’t it wasteful?’

He shrugs. ‘Beauty is not necessary for basic survival—but it is necessary for life. And anyway, certain exercises are carried out in this garden. Though now…’ He shrugs again. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to bother Tenacity with his musings.

‘You know, I’ve never seen yo— the Technomantic lot, in Aurora, fighting in a five.’

Roy still hears the cut-off _‘your lot’._

‘They are missing one.’

‘Generosity?’

‘Mm. The general won’t get anything out of them, though.’

‘Why?’

‘They are going to kill themselves.’

Tenacity scrapes the pebbles again. He’s probably uncomfortable.

‘Isn’t that…’

‘Extreme? He locked them up in insulated cells. _Single_ cells.’

‘We have those? I mean, Shadowlair has?’

Roy can’t help the bitterness in his tone. ‘Imagine that.’ He’s spent, physically, emotionally, but his charge rises.

A ripple runs over the pond as a petal falls on its surface.

‘This is worse than blinding. This is like…’ He squeezes his eyes tightly, fights the bile rising in his throat. ‘To cut off _everything_ leaving only their awareness. Like anaesthesia but with being conscious.’

‘Poor buggers,’ Tenacity murmurs. ‘The bastard definitely knows what he’s doing. Wouldn’t he ensure that they can’t… harm themselves?’

He laughs. It comes out dry. ‘It is nearly impossible to stop a Technomancer from harming themself. There are ways to kill oneself without any tools.’ He looks away from the pond. ‘Maybe they deserve that.’

Tenacity pats his knees. ‘Well. You and I deserve to be locked up, too, but that is torture. Doesn’t your… Is it permissible for them, though?’ Tenacity has that subdued tone that Roy has almost forgotten about. When people talk about Technomancy like it’s a shameful disease.

Or an esoteric teaching they don’t understand.

That is, perhaps, more accurate.

Strange to hear it from the Hound.

‘In the face of torture and great suffering, and, potentially, bringing more suffering to their kin? Yes.’

Tenacity picks a pebble and flings it. It lands right in the middle of the pond with a satisfying plop.

‘I don’t want him to lock you up like that. At all, in the Source. You or Mary.’

‘He won’t. I’ve bought our freedom with my silence.’

‘You are not a _commodity_ , Roy.’

‘Am I not?’ He picks a white petal from Tenacity’s hair.

He doesn’t want to talk about this.

He doesn’t want to let Tenacity go. A moment passes. Another. Another. When you are charged nearly beyond your control and capacity of your body, time stretches into eternity. The mind slices seconds until they are so small that time measurement becomes meaningless.

Three trees grow over three graves—but those whose bones lie there, they have never ended, locked in eternal embrace. Love that has no end and no beginning, for ever and ever, bigger than the universe itself.

Roy runs his fingers through Tenacity’s thick hair. And again. And again.

Tenacity turns to him, and wraps his arms around him, and presses his face to his stomach. ‘Are you going to him?’

‘I must return the journal. I hope he’ll forgive me.’

‘He won’t—because there is nothing to forgive.’

He doesn’t reply to that, too insensitivised to argue. He betrayed Innocence’s inclinations by selling himself to the general. At least the journal will guarantee Innocence’s safety.

‘When are _you_ leaving?’

Tenacity looks up. He has a fresh gash on his forehead. If Roy’s specialisation had been healing… But Tenacity hates Technomancers. So, Roy wouldn’t have offended him by using his powers even to heal him.

‘You so eager to get rid of me, _Roy bach_?’

He rolls his eyes—not because he feels like it, but because the teasing calls to it.

A hand slides under his jacket, strokes his back, hot through his shirt. ‘My life is in your hands.’

‘Come on, Tenacity.’ He rakes his fingers through Tenacity’s hair once more, forehead to the back. It’s so thick and soft. ‘You fed the general this shit, but we both know it’s not that.’

Tenacity’s face takes a strange expression. ‘Huh. It seems he’s not the only one who bought that shit.’ Tenacity’s hands press on Roy’s back, and he steps closer, between Tenacity’s spread thighs. ‘You look like hell, _Roy bach_. Tired?’

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to do with this quiet and closeness. He doesn’t want it to shatter—but it will. Death will creep through the cracks and kill the ancient trees.

‘Not like that.’

‘Like what, then? Too much charge?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Tenacity leans away from him—but keeps one hand on his back under the jacket—and reaches to his belt. ‘You should drink. The fights weren’t easy.’

He steps away when he sees Tenacity bring up his flask.

His heart races—whether on its own or because of Tenacity’s heart, he’s not certain. ‘Hold on.’ He goes closer to the apple tree, the ground around it covered in pristine white, its scent raking through him (he will wear it for days)—and finds what he is looking for on another boulder. He picks it up, petals flying at the movement, and goes back to Tenacity then down to the pond, and kneels by it.

‘Wait. Wait, wait, wait, you’re going to drink _that_?’

He breaks the surface of the pond and tries to make sure the ladle doesn’t pick too many petals. ‘Yes. It’s crystal, Old Hound. It’s a clever closed system, and the water is better than in most places on Mars. It tastes good.’

‘Are you sure, ‘cause I’m not—’

He closes his eyes and takes a drink.

It’s as cold as he remembers, tasting faintly sweet, like a half-forgotten dream, and it’s the best drink in his life. Exhaustion doesn’t go away, and nothing, nothing at all can clean away all the things he’s done—but the world shifts slightly closer to normal as he drinks. It spills down his chin and slides down his throat like a caress.

He opens his eyes and fills the ladle again, careful not to lean over the pond so that no dust from his clothes mars it. ‘It’s good, Tenacity.’

‘Doesn’t feel right,’ Tenacity grumbles. ‘Taking it from all the plants here. From The Lovers.’

‘If they die, it will be not for the lack of water.’ He carries the ladle to Tenacity and plants a knee on the flagstone. ‘Give me your hands.’ When Tenacity does, he pours water over them, washing Tenacity’s hands thoroughly, washing away sand and blood.

For most purification rituals, there should be salt, too—but using only water seems appropriate right now—and Tenacity doesn’t mock him. Only the hunter’s heart races. Tenacity bends down when he tells him, and snorts when he pours water over his head, too.

The ground soaks it up, ever-forgiving.

He fills the ladle once more and offers it Tenacity to drink, and Tenacity accepts it with both hands. Then gives it back to him and looks up, wet hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes brighter, and rasps, ‘Roy. Kiss me.’

He puts the ladle on the boulder and kisses Tenacity on the forehead, sweeping away strands of his hair, dark with water. Kisses his eyes, and the scar running by his right eye, and the one on the left cheek, and then finds Tenacity’s mouth, chilly from the cold water. He drinks the droplets off, kisses Tenacity until his lips are warm again.

He doesn’t want Tenacity to go.

Each separation doesn’t offer another meeting—it only holds a possibility of never meeting again.

‘If we could, if we had the time,’ Tenacity murmurs, fingers digging into the leather of Roy’s jacket, ‘if… I would have…’ He presses his wet cheek to Roy’s.

‘Would have?’

‘Занялся с тобой любовью.’

‘What, right here?’

Tenacity startles, scrambles away. He’s slid halfway down the boulder and now tries to get back up. He looks guilty, away, rubbing his neck just where Roy has scratched him. ‘You speak… Oh fuck. Of course you do.’

It’s so strange—that someone, anyone— _Tenacity_ —would phrase it like that, would want it like that—with him.

The flagstones are dark where water has been spilt. Roy cannot look at Tenacity again. He dusts off his knees, gets up. Before he’s done something worse, before Tenacity says anything else he will certainly regret later. ‘You better leave now, Hound, before they tighten security up even more.’

He picks the ladle off the boulder, goes with it to the apple tree and pours everything to the last drop over the ground. He puts the ladle back on its place, then touches the bark of the ancient Lover, sharing his charge with it. Hoping to give a little of himself that would let it survive, despite the odds.

And even if its Lovers never wake up again, it will bloom for them one last time.

‘Where are you going, Roy?’

He stops halfway to the exit but doesn’t turn. He can’t… He will never leave if he does.

‘Roy. Please.’

His fingers are wet from the purest water on Mars.

‘New Life. It’s close to the border with Abundance, up north.’

He walks out quickly before he can hear any reply.

On the train that starts his journey back to Innocence, he finds a white petal behind the cuff of his jacket.


End file.
